He recorded two versions of the statement, a thirty-second loop for radio and two fifteen-second sound bites for TV. The tapes were copied and the cassettes distributed to broadcast reporters in the lobby of police headquarters. Full texts of the press release (in English, Spanish, and Creole) were hand-delivered to all Miami newspapers; a studio eight-by-ten of Harold Keefe was conveniently included in the package.
Keefe’ s statement was released just in time for the noon news on radio and television.
Tommy Tigertail was driving east on Alligator Alley when he heard the broadcast. He turned around and cruised back to tell Skip Wiley.
“I’ll be damned, a cover-up!” Wiley exclaimed. The Indian had found him fishing near the secret campsite. Wiley was dressed in a buckskin jacket and Fila tennis shorts; he wore an Australian bush hat with a red emblem on the crown. He listened closely to Tommy Tigertail’s account of the police press release, and winced at the mention of Dr. Remond Courtney.
“I wonder what happened to Brian,” Wiley said irritably. “He was our ace in the hole, our smoking gun. I even gave him the briefcase—it was all the proof those moron cops would ever need.”
“So what do we do?” the Indian asked.
“Strike again,” advised Jesus Bernal, who had wandered out of the hammock to eavesdrop. “Strike again, and strike dramatically.”
Wiley’s bestubbled face cracked into a grin. “Jesus, mi hermano, do you still have some C-4?”
“Si.”
“Bueno,” said Wiley, humoring him with Spanish. “Make me a bomb.”
“Yes, sir!” Bernal said, scarcely concealing his rapture. “What kind of bomb?”
“A bomb that goes off when it’s supposed to.”
“Ciaro! Do not worry.”
“Please don’t blow up my car,” Tommy Tiger-tail said.
Among those who had no intention of waiting for a bomb were the residents of Otter Creek Village, where the abduction of Ida Kimmelman had set off a minor panic. Newly hired security guards now patrolled the shuffleboard courts until midnight—security guards with guns! Furthermore, the Otter Creek Safety Committee declared that all condominium owners should henceforth walk their dogs en masse, for protection. This was a drastic measure that only promoted more hysteria at Otter Creek—a herd of yipping, squatting miniature poodles dragging scores of Sansabelted retirees across the landscaping. Fearful of kidnappings, some of the oldsters armed themselves with sharp umbrellas or canisters of Mace, which they often used on one another in the heat of competition for shrubs and hydrants. Indelible terror seized the residents when the actual text of the El Fuego letter appeared in the newspaper; within hours forty-seven units at Otter Creek were put up for sale. Contracts on fourteen other apartments, including a penthouse with a whirlpool, were canceled. Overnight the parking lot seemed to fill with mustard-colored moving vans and station wagons with New York tags.
This was the first wave out of Florida.
It was exactly the way Skip Wiley had dreamed it.
One morning Brian Keyes looked up and saw the round, friendly face of Nell Bellamy. For a second he thought he was back on the sidewalk outside Pauly’s Bar.
“Hello again.”
“Hi,” Keyes said.
“I read about your accident.”
“It wasn’t exactly an accident,” Keyes said. “Why are you whispering?”
“It’s a hospital. I always whisper in hospitals.” Nell Bellamy looked embarrassed.
Keyes said, “It was nice of you to come.”
“How are you feeling? The nurses said you had a little setback.”
“Tore a few stitches the other night. One of those things.” The cost of Jenna’s heavenly visit; the next morning he’d felt like a gutted carp.
Nell tucked another pillow under his head. “Did you see the paper? They think it’s a gang of … maniacs.”
Brian Keyes knew why Nell Bellamy had come, and it was time to tell the truth. As a reporter, he’d always tried to do these melancholy chores over the phone, never in person. On the phone you could just close your eyes and take a deep gulp, and say, “Ma’am, I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but—” and then the rotten news. Your little boy got hit by a truck. Your sister was a passenger on that 727. They found your daughter’s body, Mrs. Davenport. Sometimes Keyes couldn’t bring himself to do it, and he’d play the line-is-busy game with his editor. Sorry, can’t get a comment from the family. The line’s been busy all afternoon. And then if the editor persisted, Keyes would dial his own phone number and hold the receiver away from his ear, so the busy signal would be audible.